Did You See Them Going Off to Fight?
by Unicadia
Summary: A traveler rests in an old Paris cemetery and meets a haunting individual.


**Note: The grandmother is this story is actually a great-aunt, but that would have been too awkward for her great-niece to call her that.**

* * *

A gray sky looms over me and drizzles. I pull my tattered gray coat closer around my aching body. The muddy road winds up a hill and I gaze down upon Paris, an ugly city in my eyes, but as they say, whoever 'they' are, beggars can't be choosers. I stumble down the hill, trying to keep my brain focused, trying to prevent the inevitable collapse of weariness.

I pass into an old, overgrown graveyard pressed right up against the ugly buildings. My knees give way, and I tumble onto a headstone, clutching it for support. I pull myself up onto it, and I sit there, my head in my hands, listening to the steady patter of the rain.

"Grandmother, you don't have to do this. Please, I'm begging you, come back to the house! You know how delicate your health is! You can do this some other day!"

I sit upright at the sound of a woman's voice. Peering through the mist, I see three figures making their way toward the graveyard, one rather small, a child. An old woman totters along on a cane with the assistance of a younger woman, who holds an umbrella.

"I've been doing this for 60 years, Marie. I'm not going to not visit him on the same day I've always visited him on just because of some bad weather," retorts the old woman.

I wonder if I should stay put or leave. My presence might frighten them. But I make no effort to stand. My body feels detached from my brain, and I remain here, watching the women come closer.

They stop when they see me. The child is a boy, no older than five years, a bouquet clutched in his tiny hand. He hides behind the young woman, who stares at me, but the old lady brushes past her with a wave of her cane, which she then jabs at me.

"Get off of that stone, monsieur! It isn't respectful!"

I hastily unseat myself, shaking a little once on my feet, but I manage to stay upright. The old woman takes the boy's bouquet and lays it at the foot of the stone. She remains there a few minutes, her gaze on the stone, small, wrinkled hands clasped at her waist.

I know I should go on my way, find a hotel to sleep in, some food from a street vendor, but I don't move, transfixed by this old woman beside the grave of her loved one. I marvel at her deathly-white skin.

I hear her whisper, "I'm sorry, my love. I couldn't marry anyone worthy of me, like you asked me to. I found . . . I was looking for you, and there will never be another man like you on this earth. I gave you my heart, 61 years ago, and it remains with you in Heaven with God. I have nothing to give to any other man." A tear rolls down her withered cheek, and she brushes it away, though the rain keeps falling. "I am coming to be with you soon."

She turns abruptly and fixes me with the blue, sparkling pools of her eyes. I redden, ashamed for eavesdropping on so intimate a speech.

"Don't blush, young man. I'm glad you saw this. Are you going into Paris?"

I fumble for words, disconcerted by her piercing eyes. "Ye-yes."

"Got any family or friends there?"

"No-no, mam'selle. I'm looking for work. After I find a place to stay first."

"Try the Corinth Inn. It's a decent place."

"Uh, tha-thank you."

"And remember this, monsieur," and she straightens a little, "that you have looked upon the last of those who saw them going off to fight." She waves her cane over the headstones surrounding her loved one's.

"'Them', mam'selle?"

"The children of the barricade." She turns to go, and the young woman returns to her side.

Still confused, I glance at the stone and read the inscription:

 _Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly_

 _1805 – 1832_

 _Though the bearer no longer lives, his flame has not gone out._

I look back at the retreating figures. "Wait!" I call. They stop, and the old woman faces me, smiling, dimples forming in her cheeks, as if expecting me to say something clever. "Uh – what is your name – mam'selle?"

"Musichetta Tremblay." She straightens briefly again, and I see a glimmer of a young woman from long ago, with white skin, tiny hands and feet, dimples, and fortune-teller eyes, who was swept off her feet many years past by a certain young man.

And then it is gone, and once more, I see a frail old woman, holding her granddaughter's arm for support. She nods to me and turns.

"Come, Hyacinthe," the young woman says to the boy, and they disappear into the mist, leaving the shiver of the past lingering in the old graveyard.


End file.
